Embrassement de L'Impossibilité
by The Fibonaccist
Summary: 8th Doctor/historical figure. "Never, EVER say that word. Impossible is the poison that lays the greatest of men on the deathbeds of their dreams." The Doctor plants the seed of imagination into one of the founding fathers of science fiction. WiP.
1. Prologue

A/N: I don't own The Doctor or any of his stuff, nor do I own Jules Verne or any of his stuff, and I certainly don't get paid for doing this. There will definitely be more, and I promise it will be confusing as all hell on a stick. I just have no idea WHEN that will occur. :D

* * *

I could not have been older than seven or eight, in those days. The journal is difficult to translate, in part for such terrible handwriting, and in part because at that age, I did not properly articulate the sights and emotions I remember. However, I must properly rewrite the whole of this journal, for my records if for nothing else. After all, one must pay proper homage to the seed they blossomed from. I touch the aged paper reverently, smile, and turn to the sheaf of parchment dedicated to my task. This translation will be in English, and will be kept where none on Earth may find it. This is not an account meant for Earth, anyway; the charade may rest.

~  
_Today is a magical day! Even seeing the dawn with Paul on the boat was not as magnificently exciting. I went to the market with Mother and Father, hoping to ask them to buy a cake for Paul and I to share. While they spoke with the butcher, I went out to the street to watch the clouds move. I heard the rise and fall of a great wind, though it was rhythmic, and I did not feel the air move about me. I had to find the source of this sound, as boys must always explore. It came from the alley a bit further down the street and across the way, and when I stepped in to look, I found a great vessel at the end. It was a large blue box, with celestial script toward the top, and it flickered in and out of existence before my eyes. When I reached out to touch it, it felt like metal and wood, and remained solid and warm. It had to be alive. I could so easily imagine it leaning to my hand, as a cat would, and I could even feel the metal heave toward me. Of course, I felt triumph! I had tamed a vessel from another plane of being!_

_And then, as if to prove me wrong, a door opened in the vessel, and I was forced to jump back before I was struck. A man stepped out- well, it looked like a man. I knew it was an angel, and this was a vessel from Heaven. It looked like any other man, but stepping from a box that had coalesced from nothing at all! He wore no hat despite the unforgiving sun, and his suit, while a handsome velvet that captured the colors around him, was rumpled and mildly ill-fitting. His hair was wild, also caught the colors around him to show in brilliant reflections of auburn and chestnut and flax, and also looked rumpled and ill-fitting, although he did not seem as if his head would look proper any other way. He looked worried, and nearly stumbled upon finding me in his path. And then- and then! He smiled upon me, and I felt truly blessed. The worry washed away from his face, and I found myself relieved to notice this. He knelt before me and took my shoulders, speaking to me in a beautiful and awkward tongue I could not understand. Is this the tongue of angels?_

I pause in my writing, regarding the stains of ink on my fingers borne of excitable trips over pips in the paper. I know now what he had said to me that day. I could write it here, for posterity of events... or I could omit it, for the sake of preserving the memories of an impressionable child such as myself. Several minutes of pondering and a cup of tea gradually find me deciding to leave it in the recesses of my memory. Should I lose that, and find this, I want to feel exactly as I felt, with all the wonder and confusion bestowed upon me in the proper moments. Settling back into my seat, taking a sip of my tea to warm and inspire me, I resume.

~  
_A trace of recognition came to his face. He looked positively horrified for a small fragment of a second, before he seemed to realize that I could not understand. He then held up a finger the way adults do when asking one to wait a moment, and he walked past me to the street. I turned to watch him walk, and his gait was slightly uneven but cautious, as if he'd been struck about the head recently and become disoriented. He lifted his face, and I firmly believed he was speaking with God to determine how he should speak to me. When he turned again, that smile remained, and he was wholly serene. He spoke once more, and his words halted, as if he were learning how to talk._

_"Good afternoon, boy! Would you kindly tell me where and when I am?"_

_What a preposterous question, I thought at first, but perhaps in Heaven, there was no such thing as time, and of course angels had far more important things to do than learn geography. I was wise to humor him. "You stand in Nantes, Sir Angel," I replied dutifully, and I thought respectfully! "It is June 5th of 1836 and you're in Nantes. My name is Jules, Sir, and pleased to meet you," I added hastily, with a clumsy bow. It is difficult to remember one's manners when confronted with celestial beings!_

_His laugh was as beautiful as everything else about him. "A fine name, Jules, but I am no angel." He bowed and knelt again, regarding me solemnly. "I am called the Doctor. I travel in the sky, and in... well, in time, but I seem to have become lost. Will you tell me how to get to Paris from here?"_

_"It is impossible for doctors to travel in time, or there would be no sickness," I informed him, confident in my facts- and my imagination. Often I have dreamed of traveling to unreachable places, even of inventing a sort of winding machine that could turn time forward and back at my whim (saving myself many a beating), but I knew nothing of the sort could possibly exist. "And Paris is very, very far away from here." I pointed toward the horizon where the sun rises in the mornings, knowing Paris was somewhere in that direction._

_"Never, never say that word, Jules," he scolded me. I think he scolded me, but his face became so very sad that I didn't know if he was scolding or begging. He must have seen my confusion. "Impossible!" he whispered, holding up a finger to my face. "Impossible is the poison that lays the greatest of men on the deathbeds of their dreams. Jules, you must never let yourself be poisoned. Nothing is impossible!" He took my shoulders again, and while a small part of me was frightened, I could feel such a heady potion coming from his words._

_I heard the bell above the butcher shop door chime across the street, and my mother's voice seeking me out. I took one step- oh, I wish I hadn't taken even that, though I suffer no regrets for it- and then I saw his face change once more, as if he knew any more steps than that would prevent the birth of a grand adventure. "Come... let me show you, Jules. I can show you the impossible and bring you right back here and now, and I can find Paris later."_  
_  
Maybe he was not an angel, but he is certainly a gift from God. When I pray with Mother tomorrow, I will be praying for him, because I know now that if he isn't an angel, he must at least be God's favorite._

I prop my quill, and I find it difficult to see clearly. I didn't write everything that happened to me that day, because I knew it would never fade from me. When he returned me to that alley and I ran to my mother's call, I knew I would live to tell many magnificent stories, and so I have. And so I will. I've cheated, but I know what will come to pass, and I regret none of what I have seen. This journal, this translation and upkeep, is the willpower of the wondering, wandering little boy alive within me. I am alive. I close my eyes and lean over my writing, inhaling deeply, spreading my hands over the words to immerse my senses in the scent and sensation of drying ink. I can imagine him sitting with me now, recounting our journeys as if we had merely taken a carriage across the river to meet family for supper. I can imagine that great sound, the rise and fall of a phantom wind, the exclamations of the ignorant folk around the Vessel when it appears amongst them.

But when I open my eyes, the sound escapes my imagination and lives, even just outside my window. I hear the excited and confused murmurs of people taking their evening walks and being interrupted by the impossible. My heart becomes a tumult, of course, and almost sick with anticipation, I rush to the window to see what is happening.

The angel has returned!


	2. Chapter 1

It was a dark and stormy night... as far as the Doctor could tell from the damaged display showing his arrival site, at any rate. When the screen refused to show any more detail, he frowned, crossed the console room to it in a few swift strides, and knocked smartly on the screen a couple of times. Still nothing. He would have to repair the circuit and lens as soon as possible. Hopefully he'd arrived at the correct coordinates; he had aimed for a place where he could acquire enough necessary parts for other repairs, and this would be an easy fix amongst them.

Another few steps to the console, a reassuring stroke to her surface and... how odd. He caught a faint tinge of joy the TARDIS normally reserved for companions, though they'd hardly, if ever, noticed. The Doctor automatically glanced up at the door to the living quarters, half hoping to see Charley- or, in the deepest pits of his hearts, Grace- stroll into the console room and inquire as to where they were now. The single second he waited stretched for longer than years could count, in his mind, before his memory faded once more and he reverted his attention to the matter at hand. The TARDIS had greeted a companion even as she had bid he himself farewell. He paused once more, his fingers resting lightly on the lever which would open the door to whatever murky outside would be there to greet him. One way to find out, he supposed.

It was not, in fact, a dark and stormy night, nor was he in the city of Jekuei. It was mid afternoon, in a very... Earthlike region. He squinted against the sun. It smelled and felt like Earth. He began forward, only to nearly trip over a small child who had been leaning against the TARDIS door. He smiled at once to prevent a scene of panic. The boy didn't bolt or yell; he merely stood there in awe. The Doctor knelt to maintain eye level with the child, when a streak of something vaguely akin to pain streaked across his mind. Memories. A barrage of memories.

He saw this face, under trees, growing up, staring out of port windows far, far from Earth, turning to him, smiling, speaking, such- such a beautiful mind, such ideas, such potential and yearning and learning and and _love_-

He took hold of the child's shoulders, excited, and let his words come forth to mend patches in memory. "I know you! Julian! Bijou! I remember you, and I've come back! You must have been waiting for so long, and here I am! Oh, your little face- I... I..."

And then he realized that he'd nearly run them into a paradox with such an outburst, and he shut his mouth, stricken, searching the boy's face for recognition or any other sign of trouble. Nothing but wonder and a bit of fear, healthy for young boys. Good. He lifted a finger to instruct the boy not to move, and swept past him toward the mouth of the alleyway he'd landed in.

Once he had a full view of the street, he closed his eyes to listen to the midday banter among the citizens, and taste the air from the sky. French. He was in France, though this city seemed much smaller than those he was used to visiting in previous regenerations. It had been so long ago- so far ahead from now- and he could barely grasp who he'd been when he'd seen this boy- or the man he would become- let alone who it was, aside from slivers and bursts of memories. Julian. Bijou? Well, the TARDIS knew him, that was for certain- such a sentimental thing. He could remember French now... in pieces. He hadn't spoken it in- what- centuries? Days? How was he to tell anymore? Did it matter? He pulled his knowledge together, as fretting about it would do no good to either of them.

He turned back to the boy and leaned down to face him again, ready to greet him properly. "_Bonjour, garçon! Est-ce que vous me direz-vous svp où et quand je suis?_" he asked a bit slowly, letting the memory of speech come back to his tongue.

The small voice was very clear and polite. "_Vous vous tenez à Nantes, monsieur Ange. C'est le 5 juin de 1836 et vous êtes à Nantes. __Je m'appelle __Jules, monsieur, et heureux pour vous rencontrer._" And he bowed respectfully.

The Doctor couldn't help but laugh. An angel? Him? "_Jules est un nom très bien, mais je ne suis pas un ange. Je m'appelle le Docteur. Je voyage dans le ciel, et... euh, et à temps, mais je semble être perdu. Me direz-vous comment arriver à Paris d'ici?_" He crouched again as he addressed the boy, finding the language coming easier with use.

Jules- why did that sound familiar! Jules! Jules raised his chin, his expression becoming somewhat defiant. "_Il est impossible pour que les médecins voyagent à temps, ou il n'y aurait aucune maladie,_" he argued with a heavy certainty before pointing to the horizon, "_et Paris est très, très lointain d'ici._" It was then that the Doctor remembered- this man! The brilliant man, the poet of the science that never was, at least not on this Earth. One of his fondest memories of Earth, creator of some of his favorite literature, one of his closest friends here, aside from his companions- wasn't... wasn't Jules a companion? Hadn't he been? Why couldn't he be?

The Doctor rested his hands on those small, brilliant shoulders once more, to address him very seriously. Even if these memories were false and Jules was not who the Doctor thought he was, and especially if he WAS, there was one weed they had to pull out by the root before it grew further. "_Jamais, ne dites jamais ce mot, Jules. Impossible! Impossible est le poison qui étend le plus grand des hommes sur les lits de mort de leurs rêves. Jules, vous devez ne vous laissez jamais empoisonner. Impossible n'existe pas!_"

He could see belief blooming in the child's eyes- the fear was still there, but it was being stamped out by fascination. And then a woman's voice carried over the square, calling that name and breaking the spell. The boy stepped away from him, toward the entrance of the alleyway and toward the woman's voice. The Doctor released the shoulders, a split second of resignation washing over his face, before the most wicked of ideas came to him. And again he smiled.

"_Venez, Jules! Venez et voyez. Je peux te montrer l'impossible et vous rapporter ici. J'irai à Paris plus tard!_" he implored in a conspiratory tone. "_Venez!_"

There was a long, still moment, and the woman called again. The boy tensed in a manner that tattled of taking another step away... and then he reached for the Doctor's sleeve. Two old hearts swelled with pride and excitement, and the Doctor's face felt like it would split if he smiled any wider. He was overjoyed to find that smile reflected on the small face. Together, they hurried back into the TARDIS, and as she lifted out of the dimension, she whispered of the great adventures to be had within and around her. The vastness of space and time belonged to them.


End file.
